The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum Page B

length of the ring and does a collected working canter. Then he suddenly switches into an extended canter, foam frothing around the bit. Wood shavings swirl around the shiny hooves, and it doesn’t take long before the horse is damp with sweat and glowing like clean copper. Yes, you’re good, he says to himself about the young girl. You’re light on the reins, and you’ve got good contact. But you don’t ride the whole horse, he thinks. You don’t take his hindquarters with you. All at once she comes toward him. Her gaze is completely devoid of fear.
    “Are you the man who’s going to buy Crazy?”
    She has a pretty, round face beneath the black helmet. Boots with long spurs and elegant black leather gloves.
    “You don’t like the idea, maybe? Of selling him?”
    He regards her nervously. Why should she want to part with this beautiful specimen of horseflesh? He is filled with anxiety as he squints up at her. She shrugs nonchalantly. The horse has lowered his head and is nibbling his forelegs.
    “As long as I get another one, I’m not bothered,” she says simply. “I’ve changed horses several times already. I’d like an Arab; they’re lighter.”
    She stares at him as she speaks. She stares at his legs and at his hands, and glances rapidly and inquisitively into his eyes. She’s one of those bright, tough girls, presumably a fearless rider.
    “Will you be doing dressage?” she asks. And he thinks, I don’t look much like a rider, it’s hardly surprising she’s asking. Before he has time to reply, she says: “Or will you be jumping? He’s a good jumper. One meter thirty, very sensitive to the reins. He’ll jump a long way, too.”
    “No,” Charlo finally says, looking at the horse all the time. “My bones are about as brittle as dry twigs. I think I’d better keep my feet on the ground.”
    She unfastens the chinstrap of her helmet.
    “You’d never buy a car without giving it a test drive,” she teases.
    He smiles bashfully and shakes his head, feeling a little embarrassed. It’s been a long time since he was on a horse, but he’s tempted all the same.
    “I’m not exactly dressed for it,” he parries. He feels incredibly clumsy next to this girl: an ungainly grown man with a belly and thinning hair. Wearing a lumpy old quilted jacket.
    She slips resolutely off the horse’s back and hands him the reins. Charlo takes off his jacket. Stands hesitating for a moment. What’s he getting into? Where will it end? In the sawdust perhaps, head first. A broken neck. Or cracked ribs.
    “Do you need a whip?” she asks, full of blue-eyed innocence. Charlo shakes his head.
    “I’ll ride him at a gentle trot, that should do.”
    “Now that he’s well warmed up,” she says, “he’ll move easily. He favors the left,” she adds. “In case you’re interested.” Her gaze is insistent; she wants to play.
    Charlo gulps. He puts his foot in the stirrup, gathers the reins in his left hand, and grips the saddle with his right. Silently he counts to three, and then pushes off hard and swings himself up.
    “I’m afraid he’s in for a shock,” Charlo says. “I probably weigh twice as much as you.”
    “That’s nothing to Crazy,” she says, smiling. “Come on, let’s see!”
    She’s enjoying herself like the child she is. He sets off at a walk and tries to relax and keep his back straight. The horse’s movements are big and Charlo bobs away. The horse’s body is warm between his thighs. He does one circuit at a walk, leans forward a bit, and digs in his heels. The horse immediately changes into a nice, easy trot. He feels hot; his cheeks are burning. He trots around three times, and then stops in front of the girl.
    “And now, do two circuits at the canter,” she says eagerly. Playing instructor, her voice is full of authority.
    Charlo wavers. He strokes the horse’s neck and feels the thick arteries under his skin. He feels so important sitting there. As if he’s in the right place, in